Category: Sports?

I called the popo on a neighbor last night. Hated to do it, but he was apparently intoxicated, enraged, and going after his brother with a damn shovel, yelling that he intended to kill him. Three cop cars showed up. Fortunately I don’t think anyone was hurt or arrested.

There is data indicating that “violence against women spikes after the home pro football team suffers an upset.” I don’t think the Packers victory was an upset, and the target here was not a woman, but still I have to wonder whether this would have happened if the Saints had won.

Property tax bills are coming out in New Orleans right now. But this is not about that.

I finally beat my father-in-law at Scrabble. The key play for me: MILLAGES, a triple triple bingo for 158 points. This is a word I only learned upon living in New Orleans; it’s another word for property tax. Mike challenged it, of strategic necessity, and that sealed the deal.

I should note that Mike is a competitive Scrabble player who has been know to play in Division One at the national championship. It’s truly a pleasure to play against him because he’s so damn good. I’m so awestruck that I don’t mind getting trounced repeatedly, and I usually learn some new words.

We’ve played many, many games over the years but I don’t recall ever winning a one-on-one game with him before. It’s not unusual for him to play a triple triple bingo, as I noted back in 2004, but this may well have been my first.

I should also note that we were playing nine-tile variant, so this wouldn’t be considered legit in any sense by the tournament crowd.

When I was changing planes in Philly I got two pieces of bad news from New Orleans, the second of which was so harrowing it made the first seem trivial.

First, I learned the Saints suffered their first defeat of the season, in overtime, no less; to the Atlanta Falcons, no less; at the Superdome, no less.

Next, I learned a that a young boy had caught a bullet and had been rushed to the hospital. When I landed in New Orleans I read the news that he had died. His name was Jeremy Galmon. He was two years old.

That certainly does put things in painful perspective, like Cliff says. It’s hard to get too worked up about a football game when you’re confronted with such an atrocity.

And yet when I picked up the paper Monday morning, what did I see? Yes, the story of Jeremy’s death made a front page headline. So did the football game. But the football headline was two or three times as big. I felt a painful dissonance, looking at that front page.

In the days that have followed, we’ve had more coverage of the story of Jeremy’s murder, the grief of his family, the circumstances of his death, the response by authorities, the arrest of one suspect, the hunt for another. We’ve also had plenty of continuing coverage of how the Saints are responding to their loss, bringing in other kickers, and so forth. I haven’t done a serious analysis, but it’s clear that more ink has been spilled on the latter story over the last four days.

I’m sure the folks at the TP would say that they are giving the people what they want. I buy that, but only to a certain extent. Does our media reflect our culture or create it? I believe it does both. It may be true that, as a society, we are more concerned with professional sports than the murder of a child. But this is a time for our media to exercise some leadership. This is a time to provide some in-depth reportage on the underlying causes of violence. Look at the amount of analysis that fills out the Sports section every day. If we had half that much analysis of social problems we’d surely make some progress.

The tragic death of Jeremy Galmon is a story that people will respond to. Such tragedies are also learning opportunities, and we desperately need to learn some lessons. Across the political spectrum, people understand that violence is a problem. We also need to share an understanding of the root causes of this endemic social problem, if we are to come to consensus on solutions.

I’ve been beating up on the media here, but I want to be clear that the real villain in this story is whoever pulled the trigger. Yet the media do have a role to play, and it is a vital one. They need to engage the issues when the public is engaged, and this story is an example.

And why does Jeremy’s story move us so? Every loss of life is regrettable, regardless of age. If a victim is 20 or 200, it’s still tragic. But there’s something especially wrenching when a toddler is a victim of violence. Few of us are completely innocent; we’re all caught up in a web of social complicity to some degree; we all bear some guilt for what we’ve allowed our culture to become. The main exception to this is children. They are truly and unquestionably innocent. (And please don’t talk to me about “original sin.”) I know very little really, about Jeremy, but I can guarantee you this: He never hurt anyone. He didn’t deserve this.

Is there any point in even trying to talk about anything else today? No. There’s not, not here in New Orleans anyway. Tonight the Saints play the Vikings in a re-match that is being hyped beyond all belief. And yet the massive hype feels perfectly natural and entirely appropriate, here in New Orleans anyway. I don’t know about the rest of the country.

I saw this truck in the brickyard parking lot yesterday morning. You can’t see in this shot, but this gold pickup is decked out in Saints regalia, including a big “Who Dat Nation” marquee on top of the cab. This little diorama is in the bed. Yeah, so they spelled his name wrong. Can you really blame them? They get extra points for creativity.

A sign on the back of the truck said “Brett Favre Retirement Party.” Or so I thought. When I passed by this morning I saw the same truck but no sign. So maybe I imagined the sign, or maybe it fell off.

I for one plan to tune in and watch the retirement party on television tonight.

Update: Howie jogged my memory. I did not imagine the “Retirement Party” concept — I saw it on Facebook thanks to the fabulous Mary H. Gotta give credit where it’s due. If my memory continues to deteriorate it may be time for my retirement party soon.

Over the long weekend I was privileged to observe and even participate in some bizarre graveyard rituals to ensure a victorious season for the New Orleans Saints. These were organized in large part by college professors. There were at least three profs in attendance — maybe more. With getups like these it’s hard to tell.

I also had the opportunity to sit in on a roundtable discussion organized by the New Orleans Lamplight Circle, a local pagan group. This is the second such discussion I’ve attended. The previous was on “Existentialism and Spirituality.” This one was a true roundtable, with participants bringing their own topics for discussion. We talked about everything from the nature of divinity to the proper texture of brownies, and all points in between.

I thought this was a funny sort of inversion, since one typically associates academics with roundtables, and magic rituals with pagans, rather than the other way round.

Since I don’t seem to have anything interesting to say, I thought I’d just link to Oyster’s brilliant short essay on why we need to repeal that unfortunate recent legislation we’ve all heard so much about. I considered myself vaguely in favor of the new rules until I read this. Give it a look, it might just change your mind.

It’s not quite official. Xy made the first cut and has been going to practice sessions. The rules are strict and harsh — you have to pass through many circles of hell before you can be considered a Big Easy Roller Girl. And it will be even longer before she sees any action in a bout, I think. For now she is aching all over from her last practice but the bruises so far are minimal. As busy as she is with teaching and mothering, she really doesn’t have time for this. Yet I’ve encouraged her every step of the way (including decorating her helmet last night) because I think it’s important for everyone to have some fun, and some “me” time. This might be the perfect activity for Xy. She’s got a lot of aggression that needs an outlet.

B, I agree with all your points, but as someone who grew up here, the win means even more.

We all know that historically the Saints were a lousy team. The first Saints game I attended was in the 1980 season, when the Saints posted a 1-15 record, a record that remained the NFL’s worst until last season’s Detroit team went 0-16. The Saints went decades without a winning season followed by thirteen years in which they could not win a playoff game, modest accomplishments that are pro forma for most teams. Before Katrina, I frequently said, “Being a Saints fan is like trying to convince yourself you’re in love with a woman who’s been sleeping around on you; you know, sooner or later, you’re going to be let down.” By any empirical basis, on an intuitive level, the Saints’ winning the Super Bowl was simply impossible.

New Orleans’ culture possesses a unique ability to transmute disappointment into some kind of celebration, and so we did with the Saints. We wore our paper bags in the Superdome and turned our embarrassment into a hilarious, iconic joke. But we settled. We settled for less, for a real embarrassment. New Orleans does possess qualities that are precious and entirely too rare, chief among them are wildly creative imaginations, sublime beauty, and a humbling, profound love for this place. But the dark side of our city’s joyous resilience is that we’re willing to settle for less — from our government, from our corporations, from our civic discourse.

We all know that the Saints’ victory “means more than football.” In fact, it matters very little to me that the Saints beat the Colts or that they stand on top of the nation’s most prestigious sports league or that sports fans the world over are in love with our team. The reason my eyes well up when I think about the Super Bowl is because our team achieved something truly grand, despite every challenge, circumstance and history that would have excused them for settling for less.

So we have witnessed a sports champion becoming a people’s champion. Entrenched mindsets have fallen away; insufferable difficulties have been overcome. And now I cannot help but dream and dream big, of the city’s overcoming its oldest embarrassment, the ethnic divisions between her citizens created by their economic exploitation. We caught a glimpse of it every Sunday in the Superdome as the Who Dat Nation stood shoulder-to-shoulder, regardless of race, to rock the Dome in one voice. My dream is that, in this city of passionate love, each New Orleanian comes to love all New Orleanians and view the plight of their neighbors as the plight of their beloved city. Of course, fate handed us a new mayor on the eve of this victory, one who fortunately made unity his mantra. My dream is that, in this city of such imagination and creativity, we imagine and create a government and society based on economic and social justice. Such accomplishments are harder than winning a Super Bowl. Many would say they’re impossible. But Sunday, the Saints showed us that impossible is nothing.

A number of friends have remarked recently at how surprised they are to see me writing about sports, and about football in particular, since they remember when I didn’t know anything about the game except that the ball’s shaped funny.

It was not that long ago, really.

One thing I should perhaps clarify: I am not a football fan. I am a Saints fan. There is a difference.

I’ve already recounted how I came to appreciate the game of football in my fortieth year. If you missed this fascinating disclosure, I suggest you revisit my Confessions of a Football Skeptic. Most everything I’ve learned about the game has come from watching the Saints. I still haven’t taken much of an interest in watching other teams play.

But there’s more to it than that.

People here love the team. I remember years ago seeing a statistical proof that Saints fans were the most loyal in the nations, as a ratio of ticket sales to losses, or some such. The fans are off-the-chain crazy devoted, and that’s somewhat infectious.

But there’s more to it than that.

Dare I say it? The Saints have a cool image. They have an unusual name, an awesome logo (which goes back to the 12th century if not earlier) and classy colors. Even before I started following the game, I could be seen sporting Saints gear occasionally, just because I wanted to look cool.

Editor B in Cypress Grove Cemetery circa 2003

But, again, there’s so much more to it than that.

I could go on and on in this vein, but I’ll cut to the chase. After the floods of 2005, when everything about this city was called into question, interest in every aspect of the local culture intensified greatly, and I too was caught up in that. I decided to actually check the Saints out and try to understand what all these incredibly loyal fans were on about. It just so happened that I started paying attention as the team started to catch fire under Brees and Payton. The success of the team has been, quite simply, an inspiration to just about everyone living here. The team’s public rhetoric about rebuilding together has supported this. They are more than a metaphor. They are an example.

If they can succeed, so can we. Here’s a video clip wherein Garland Robinette says “they have awakened us to our own recovery.”

Despite many positive aspects, New Orleans had been on the decline for a good century, and thus falling from the national consciousness, when the city flooded in 2005. All of a sudden we were thrust into the spotlight, and it wasn’t pretty. Everything negative about the city, all our failings and shortcomings were on display — even as the nation was reminded of all the unique things New Orleans contributes.

So now here we are in 2010 and New Orleans is again a focus of national media attention, only this time the story is positive. More people watched this Super Bowl than any televised event in human history. As the saying goes, you can’t buy that sort of publicity. This is huge, and we need it.

But maybe even more importantly than how this makes us look to others, is how this makes us look at ourselves, like Garland said. It’s a reminder of the simple truism that if we pull together and work hard we can accomplish great things. We need that reminder.

Has there ever been a time when an NFL team has meant so much to a city, to a region, as what the Saints have meant over the past four and half years to New Orleans and the Gulf Coast? I don’t know enough about the history of the league to answer that question. But I suspect not.

The closest I can imagine is the Detroit Lions. Now that the Saints have made it all the way, the Lions are the only old team to never play in the Super Bowl. And furthermore the Detroit area has been weathering an economic storm for years that has in some ways been worse than the flooding New Orleans experienced. If the Lions were ever to mount a resurgence such as the Saints have done, it might have a similar feel to it.

Until then, I think it’s safe to say that New Orleans has a very special relationship to its team. Sure, there are plenty of football fanatics here. But I believe there are also a great number of fans, like myself, who simply would not be following any team if they lived elsewhere.

To reiterate, I am not a football fan. I’m a Saints fan. There is a difference.

The Saints won a decisive victory against a worthy opponent, and people in New Orleans couldn’t be happier. To be perfectly honest I’m still having a hard time believing this is real. I had been anticipating defeat. I’d thought about what I’d say here if New Orleans lost — how it still felt like victory just to be in the game, how we’d still have a bigger party than Indianapolis. I even had a title for today’s entry: “Blue Monday (Not).” But I really didn’t expect… this. I didn’t expect I’d be writing from this perspective. I find I’m at a loss for words. So I will let some other people speak for me:

Text messages from my sister last night:

A win for pitty aint shit. Ur livin a 4 yr old wet dream all the way out.

Bart Everson was, is, and will always be a self-styled schmuck whose only claim to fame is his own hot air, seasoned with chronic halitosis.

Plus Bart lied about Timothy McVeigh being from Indiana. McVeigh was from the Niagara Falls area. He was executed in Terre Haute.

Barton P. Everson is a filthy, half-witted varlet, and his clothes are both malodorous and out of fashion! Were he in need of a napkin at a pumpkin-eating contest, and were I in charge of distributing napkins, not only I would not offer him a napkin, I would not give him one if he asked for it! I would pretend not to hear his pleas for napkins! That’s how scurrilous I find him! I am quite serious about this!

I, too, find his pustulent, malodorous nephariousness a preponderance of the ilk known abroad as a not-squeaky-clean person in his attributes and general bearing to be a massive run-on sentence. The injurious intent of his regular diatribitic misuse of community jocularity could only be interpreted as portential to the delusional meanderings of those whose socks could use a good wash…

On the heels of another third-down throw to Clark, Addai charges in for a 4-yard rushing touchdown (10 plays, 76 yards, 5:26 drive), followed by a shot of the Manning family’s luxury box and Archie sitting sadly before realizing, “Oh, crap, there are cameras on me, I can’t root for the Saints!” and belatedly applauding. That was fun.

He is the one who triggered an early Mardi Gras, who wrote the ultimate comeback saga and hurled it directly into the teeth of the depression Katrina wrought. He is the one who gave new life into the age old New Orleans’ call to arms and revelry Sunday night: ‘‘Laissez les bon temps rouler’’ — “Let the good times roll.’’

Look, I know that Tracy Porter’s superb film study is what actually enabled him to pick off Peyton Manning’s fourth-quarter pass and return it for the Super Bowl 44-sealing touchdown Sunday night. If you believe that a mix of confidence and style can put karma on your side, though, join me in praising Tracy Porter’s hair.

And so it’s no surprise that Manning and Wayne weren’t in particularly good spirits after the game, and that they went straight to the locker room instead of sticking around on the field afterward to offer post-game handshakes to the Saints.

He said the Saints are not like a lot of NFL teams. Brees said the Saints “played for so much more than just ourselves. We played for our city … and the entire Who Dat nation that was behind us all the way.”

For many, [Ward McClendon] said, there remains a hole in lives in this area, where more than 75 percent of the pre-Hurricane Katrina population remains displaced. Here, he said, football has helped heal. Especially after a Super Bowl victory. “It’s doing a lot for our spirit,” McClendon said.

Aside from bringing a championship to a hard-luck city, Sunday’s win over the Indianapolis Colts is feeding feelings the city can overcome the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and solve long-standing problems.

“Even sober people came here for this, and that’s not something you normally see this time of year in New Orleans,” said Tish Welch-Slusher, a Sulphur, La. resident, referring to Mardi Gras. “This is going to be crazy.”

At the Crowne Plaza Astor Hotel New Orleans, at Bourbon and Canal streets, numerous wait staff failed to show up for work Monday morning, and management types were conspicuously bussing dirty tables at breakfast time.

My research continues to pay dividends. I’ve discovered things about Indianapolis that even I didn’t know, things that will make your hair stand on end. I started this list to help Saints fans, but when my friends and family up in Indianapolis read this, they will probably want to pack up the car and evacuate while the getting is good.

Even though Jimmy Kimmel calls the score wrong, you gotta respect his take:

Colts 31-21. I know New Orleans is the sentimental favorite, but I still think people who live in Indianapolis are worse off.

Kimmel may have the score wrong but a gorilla and some cats pick the Saints. These animals are never wrong. Who’s laughing now?

The benighted denizens of Indianapolis love to brag about how theirs is the only capital city located at the exact geographic center of their state — as if that was something to brag about in the first place. But as a matter of fact, like so many other pro-Indy talking points, this is a flat-out lie. Indianapolis is not at the exact center of Indiana. Not even close! It’s skewed a good 35 feet to the northeast. The founding fathers figured this was close enough — such is Hoosier laxity where matters of precision are concerned.

And that leads us to another little-known but extremely relevant fact. Indianapolis was not the only name considered for the city. Because of the imprecise reckoning used to fix its location, the original name of the city was proposed to be Purtnearpolis because it’s “purt near” the center of the state. James Whitcomb Riley advocated strongly for this choice, but he was so drunk when he spoke before the legislature that no one could understand what he was actually saying.

As an unfortunate consequence of the name finally chosen for the city, no one really knows what to call those who have the misfortune to live there. The official terms is Indianapolitan, which has more syllables than most Hoosiers can count. The problem is that no one can actually pronounce that word. Is that any way to conduct business in the 21st century?

Hoosiers like to consider themselves well educated, but a recent poll indicates that 85% of Indiana residents can’t spell “Who Dat.” 63% weren’t even certain if it’s one word or two.

Indianapolis is known as a breeding ground for terrorists and criminals. Jimmy Hoffa, Jim Jones, half of the original Symbionese Liberation Army, Timothy McVeigh, Lee Harvey Oswald, and Osama bin Laden are all from Indianapolis.

There is a school on the west side of Indy that serves nothing but bacon in its cafeteria. Hard to believe but true! No veggies, no fresh fruit, no beverages even. Only bacon.

Bourbon Street, probably the most famous street in America, is known across the nation for tawdry images of female Mardi Gras revelers baring their breasts in public. Here in New Orleans we know such behavior is the exclusive domain of tourists from out of town. What’s less well known is that 92% of those Bourbon Street flashers are from Indianapolis. It’s a statistical fact.

The somniferous qualities of Naptown cannot be overstated. In 1992, the city council considered installing “wake up sirens” in the downtown area to prevent workers and tourists from nodding off due to sheer boredom. The project proved cost-prohibitive so today rampant snoozing continues unabated in the streets. Indeed it is not unusual to stumble over people sleeping on the sidewalk in downtown in Indianapolis, from which derives the customary Hoosier warning, “Mind you don’t stub your toe on that guy’s teeth!”

The city of Indianapolis is so depressing, and its citizenry so lacking in moral character, that a Constitutional amendment was recently introduced to engineer a “reverse secession” which would effectively turn Indianapolis into an independent nation of its own. The amendment was narrowly defeated on humanitarian grounds.

These facts are backed up by a thorough research of the historical and scientific literature and are guaranteed to be pretty goshdarn accurate.

It’s almost heartening to see the Indianapolis folk awaken from their torpor and struggle to mount a defense against the mountains of factual evidence I’ve been compiling over the last couple days.

Of course, in typical Hoosier fashion, their counterattacks fall somewhat short of the mark, to say the least. Unfortunately ineptitude is sort of a tradition up there in Indy.

First we have some guy name Chris who’s all in a huff, man. He’s formulated a list of “5 Reasons New Orleans (and Louisiana in general) SUX” (typical Hoosier spelling) which he posted on this blog — twice.

He says we’re violent, ignorant, fat, corrupt, and racist. I fervently wish I could deny those allegations, but I can’t. I’m nothing if not a stickler for the truth, and I’m not one to gloss over serious problems.

However — and this applies to all who hate on NOLA — you really need to think twice about that strategy. It won’t work, and it might even backfire.

See, after our city was flooded in 2005, we got help from people all over the country. Along with that help, we also saw an outpouring of internet-hatred which I don’t think those elsewhere in the country can really imagine.

In other words, we’ve heard it all before. We’ve read it all before. We’ve chosen to make a stand, and we’re battle-hardened. As we’ve struggled to rebuild we’ve had to re-examine every aspect of life here, and we are more aware of our flaws than you — painfully so. Some of us are fighting to make it better.

Meanwhile, beyond the Crescent City, everybody’s rooting for us. We’re the underdog, and America loves an underdog. So disparaging NOLA just makes you look like a poor sport.

Hey, I warned you at the outset this wasn’t going to be fair.

Furthermore, Chris, I have to point out that your list stops at a scant five items. I’ve compiled twenty facts about Indy, and I’m only just warming up. You’ve got your work cut out for you. Despite what your Hoosier math skills might tell you, posting the same list twice doesn’t make it ten.

OK, next up: This blog also got a comment from the Marketing Director for the Indianapolis Convention and Visitors Association. Her remarks were so sincere and so heartfelt they almost made me cry. Almost. It does occur to me that this poor woman has one tough job. She has to try to get people to come to Indianapolis. Who wouldn’t feel sorry for her? You’d have to be a hardhearted curmudgeon indeed.

The real shitstorm (sorry Mom) has been on Facebook. There has been a group formed called Bart Everson is not welcome in Indianapolis. Unfortunately for poor Nate, the founder, it was quickly flooded (oops, bad choice of words) by New Orleans residents and Who Dats from around the country. On last review, I see Nate is considering signing ownership of the group over to me. “Maybe I should just surrender… I’m a stranger in my own group!”

Ya gotta feel sorry for these Hoosiers. You really do.

Meanwhile, that Chris Huff Man has been huffing and puffing on Facebook as well. He commented on my status — again and again and again and again — on every status update I’ve posted over the past couple days.

And it was the same comment each time. Not much content actually. Just a link. A link to a picture…

What’s that? It appears to be a Colts logo superimposed on Hurricane Katrina as it bore down on the Gulf Coast five years ago.

Classy.

However, this is yet another example of Hoosier strategy gone terribly wrong. You see, the game isn’t in New Orleans. It’s actually in Miami. Y’all are welcome to send “Hurricane Coltrina” our way to join the party, of course.

This graphic is much superior.

I’m sure all will agree that “Hurricane Whodat” shows greater creativity and subtlety. But that’s the kind of quality — the passion — the attention to detail — I’ve come to expect from Saints fans.

I can only hope the Colts bring a stronger game on Sunday. Really, I mean that. I want the Saints to win, of course. But if the Colts come as weak as their fans, it won’t be much of game.

Apparently I am no longer welcome in the place where I was raised. My parents have written me out of the will; my sister says she never wants to see me again, and I don’t even want to tell you what her husband says; fortunately my in-laws are still on speaking terms but have stipulated they’ll only meet me at specified locations outside the Hoosier State.

I love Indianapolis, really I do. It’s just so easy to mock. And so much fun. I didn’t mean to offend anyone with my fact-finding yesterday. But I miscalculated. I forgot many Hoosiers can actually read. And they have internets. Who knew?

Things have gotten ugly, and I blame myself. There’s only one thing uglier than a Hoosier, and that’s a mad Hoosier who’s just been reminded that their capital city is known in the rest of the country as “a cornfield with lights.” I shouldn’t have said anything.

Amongst the numerous angry and incoherent cries from my benighted Hoosier brethren, the following remark from one JB of Indianapolis is all too typical:

I know you love your adopted hometown dearly, B, and your misgivings about The Crossroads of America are well-documented (literally!), but I guess I’m just not quite able to accept that the same Bart Everson who has spent the better part of the last two decades overtly or by implication cataloging and deconstructing that particularly American brand of lowest-common-denominator jingoism has truly devolved into that polarized paradigm that The Onion so succinctly summed up on their timeless “The Sports Team From My Area Is Superior to the Sports Team from Your Area” t-shirts, but I guess it could be that the march toward middle age has caused you to (hopefully temporarily) leave behind the Reason of your youth and supplant it with a clumsier and more hackneyed polarity normally not seen this side of Mike Royko, but I’m holding out hope that maybe you were just having some semi-satirical fun whilst stoking some cred fires in your new homeland.

See what I mean? Rile them up a little and they fall to pieces. That’s a run-on sentence. Clearly, he’s rattled.

I should know better than to continue along this vein, but I just can’t help myself. It’s like eating potato chips. Or smashing windows. Once you smash one, you gotta smash ’em all.

Let’s start off with a little history, going back to 1897. That’s when the Indiana legislature tried to round Pi off to 3.2.

Indianapolis was in the news quite a bit a year or so ago because they had the cheapest housing market in the country.

Why is housing so cheap? Because no one wants to live there. It’s simple supply and demand. Detroit has now surpassed Indy in this category though. Way to go!

Did you know half the nation’s population is within a day’s drive of Indianapolis? And yet the overwhelming majority of drivers refuse to stop when driving through Indy.

I wonder why that is.

Never mind the rest of the county. The sad fact is that Indy is embarrassed of itself. As a subjective phenomenon, such an allegation might seem difficult to prove. Therefore I quote no less an authority than the respected Aaron M. Renn:

let’s face it, Indy is carrying around a chip on its shoulder about being a “cow town” sort of place. It is desperate to prove its big city bona fides and have people see it as a real big city. That’s why there is so much focus on things like swanky restaurants, shops, pro sports, light rail, etc. Indy is desperate to be perceived as having the trappings of a “real” big city and be taken seriously

Please note these are the words of an advocate, not a detractor. But with friends like these…

The so-called “Hoosier Poet,” James Whitcomb Riley, has not one but three works featured in Very Bad Poetry by Ross Petras. The titles are evocative indeed: “The Smitten Purist,” “Us-folks Is Purty Pore,” and “I’m Thist a Little Cripple Boy, an’ Never Goin’ to Grow.”

I’d quote from this last but I’m afraid it might induce my readers to barf.

It is worth noting that Riley was the most cultured man the Hoosier State has yet produced.

Until I came along of course.

David Letterman got his start on TV as a weatherman on an Indianapolis station. He once predicted hail stones “the size of canned hams.”

For this little joke, he was summarily fired, and the citizens of this dour and humorless city rode him out of town on a rail. Of course they were doing him a favor by forcing him to seek his fortune elsewhere, which he did with considerable success.

As a former Hoosier I actually do understand this. As I grew up, I truly thought that “shrimp cocktail with plenty of horseradish” was the pinnacle of good eating and the high life. In fact, on my honeymoon in French Lick I ordered two servings of it.

But let’s be honest. The Saints may actually have to throw the game to avoid this “prize.”

It has a good football team, which is celebrated by the local populace by appropriating another region’s signature icons and culture because Indianapolis lacks one of its own. Wave those Terrific Towels, everybody! You’re the 12th Man! A chain restaurant of your choice wants to host your Super Bowl party! They got sliders!

Now that I’ve sobered up sufficiently, I thought I’d write about something serious for a change.

Some people suffer a persistent delusion that the Super Bowl is won by whichever team plays better on that day.

Not so. Wise folks know the big game will be won by whichever teams’ fans are rooting with the most passion. The psychic vibrations from this passionate rooting will boost one team to victory and leave the other in the throes of defeat.

It is a complicated business, to be sure. Just as important as the positive aspects of pride and enthusiasm is the dark side — a healthy disdain for the opponent, and moreover for the fans of the opposing team.

In other words, Saints fans, it’s time to get your hate on.

I realize this puts Indy at a disadvantage, because no one decent wants to hate on New Orleans, and folks in Indianapolis fancy themselves decent if nothing else. But no one said we were playing fair here. Viking fans are still whining that the Saints were “too rough” on their quarterback. Hey, life isn’t fair.

Having grown up on the south side of Indianapolis, I have the inside track on some truly embarrassing facts that every Saints fan should keep in mind as we head toward the confrontation in Miami. Of course, coming from Indianapolis I also suffer from the above mentioned illusion of decency which prevents me from actually saying anything insulting myself. Therefore I will resort to the tried and trusted technique of quoting other sources.

You thought Louisiana lawmakers had cornered the market on dumb legislation? Not hardly. Republican Senator Jim Merritt of Indianapolis is hard at work on a bill to criminalize “sexting.”

“We do not have this in the code whatsoever. Texting, sexting, is a new phenomenon, it’s a national phenomenon. What we’re trying to do is say to the child, do not sext,” Merritt said. “It would be a juvenile violation if a minor would send another minor a sext message, and if that person forwards it on, that would also be a juvenile act.”

Do I even need to spell out how stupid this is?

In Louisiana we prefer our idiot legislators to come from the sticks or at least suburban Jefferson Parish, but this guy represents the state capital, which is also the most populous city in the state. How can this be? How can sophisticated urbanites elect such an obvious doofus? Read on and it will all start to make perfect sense…

Like all great cities, Indianapolis has been immortalized in the lyrics of popular song. One quick sample should suffice…

Ten days on the road
Now I’m four hours from my hometown
Is this Hell or Indianapolis,
With no way to get around.

In case you missed the point, the Bottle Rockets are equating Indianapolis with the netherworld. The city inspires many such comparisons.

Like all great cities, Indianapolis has its share of nicknames. For example, the always popular Indianoplace:

Although it’s a comfortable, Midwest city with a steadily-growing economy, a growing population and an increase in amenities, it is perceived as being Dullsville when compared to the Coastal cities. It is easy to see why. It lies in the middle of nowhere — in the flat Corn Belt with no mountains, no rivers (navigable ones), no culture, no nightlife, no high-density development, no green space, no opportunities to get out and enjoy nature, not a huge number of suburbs, no high-tech jobs and abysmal public transportation. Rumor has it that Indy is talking of creating light-rail in the future, but don’t count on it. Too many people in the area are too antiquated and narrow-minded to accept changing anything.

Ouch, kind of harsh. But again, these are not my words, ladies and gentlemen. I’m merely reporting what I find on authoritative sources such as the always-reliable Urban Dictionary.

Comes from the evident lack of anything to do other than get drunk and watch sports and the appearant resistance of many of its inhabitants to allow culture, change, or diversity into the mix.

Another popular nickname is Naptown. The term evidently derives from the notion that it’s a sleepy place with very little excitement. Another interpretation is this was a racially derogatory term promulgated by the KKK which, by the way, ruled the Hoosier state for a good long chunk of the 20th century. However, the term Naptown has now been embraced as a term of pride, or at least endearment, by the current generation of rappers, so I guess it’s come full circle.

Other nicknames for Indianapolis include “Neon Cornfield” or “Where Fun Goes to Die.” I think you get the idea.

Let’s consider the true meaning of the word Hoosier. Growing up in Indiana myself I was never aware of the insidious meaning of this term. I thought it was a value-neutral label for anyone born or bred in Indiana. Only when I grew up and struck out on my own did I discover the truth. In the rest of the country, and in St. Louis in particular, Hoosier has a very particular meaning and it’s not a compliment! This was first driven home to me when watching an old black-and-white gangster flick from the 30s. After one hood gunned down another for no good reason, his companion castigated him thusly:

What’d you do that for? That was stupid — real Hoosier stuff!

Let’s return to the Urban Dictionary for a more contemporary definition:

Usually overweight, trailer-inhabiting, junk-food-eating, quasi-inbred folks whose idea of luxury is shopping at Wal-Mart and when in the mood for gourmet dining, go to Ponderosa. For the ultimate in entertainment, it’s the Jerry Springer Show or pro wrestling. Of course, NASCAR is big also. But the mecca of the true Hoosier is Six Flags Over Mid-America in Eureka, MO. A disproportionate number of Hoosiers can be found at hospitals, as both patients and visitors, a result of a lifetime of artery clogging, blood pressure raising diet and smoking cigarettes.

I wish I could say that was hyperbole.

Why is Indianapolis located where it is, anyway? It’s a historical fact:

The city was founded on the White River under the incorrect assumption that the river would serve as a major transportation artery; however, the waterway was too sandy for trade. [Wikipedia]

One steamer did make it to Indianapolis but it got hung up on a sand bar. Yes, indeed, the entire city is founded on the basis of a mistake, an error, a botched decision made on erroneous information — and a costly one at that.

It’s sad but it’s true. Indy fans don’t have the passion New Orleans fans bring. When I mentioned the celebratory atmosphere here in the Crescent City, a friend of mine in Indy put it this way:

Enjoy the party. In Indianapolis we don’t even celebrate until Miami. That’s how we do it.

Sad, ain’t it? I guess that’s the danger of success. In Indy people are so used to victory they’re yawning at the prospect. Another Super Bowl? Ho hum. I guess they might start calling it Naptown again. Prediction: No matter the outcome of the game, there will be more fans welcoming the Saints back to New Orleans than welcoming the Colts back to Indy. That’s just how insane the fans are here.

Just to show what an open-minded guy I am, I’ll entertain the opposing view. A Hoosier friend of mine wrote the following defense of Colts fandom, and I think he does a fine job of damning with faint praise.

The Colts and the Super Bowl mean more to Indiana and Indianapolis than the Saints mean to New Orleans.

Hang on.

New Orleans has survived the greatest national tragedy since the Civil War. They have done so with the overwhelming support of the rest of the nation and perseverance and tenacity that is truly awe inspiring. There is still much work to be done, of course, and I do realize what a Super Bowl victory would mean to the city, especially given the Saints have never been this far.

However.

New Orleans has incredible music, art, FOOD, and history. Probably the most impressive of any city in the country. Jazz Fest. Mardi Gras. LSU football, the ocean, the Mississippi River, etc etc etc.

Indianapolis has the Colts.
And a decent Children’s Museum.
Maybe the 500, but ick.

There are many reasons for citizens of New Orleans to be proud, and besides the Colts, we here in Danielsland have next to nothing.

Rooting for the Colts is the ethically correct thing to do on Super Bowl Sunday.

I rest my case. Well… almost. Several points remain to be made.

Since our hex on Favre seemed to work so well, we’ve been wanting to do something similar for Manning, but it’s complicated. We can’t just steal soil from his boyhood home; since the Saints come from the same turf it might have unintentional consequences.

I think we need something more personal. I’ve asked one of my loose, free and single friends up in Indy to try for a lock of his hair. She thought she might volunteer to clean the shower room and gets some pubes. I told her she needs to lure him pack to her place with her feminine wiles, get him drunk and do a Samson-and-Delilah number on him.

Still waiting to hear back from her.

Which brings me to point number whatever:

It’s practically an open secret that the Colts quarterback is a man of low moral character whose womanizing ways will soon bring disgrace on himself, his family, his team, and his adopted city. Open marriage? Yeah, right. Just wait until this blows up in his face Tiger-style and then remember you heard it from me first.

(I could post citations because this stuff is all over the interwebs, which as we all know is an unimpeachable source, but it’s just too sleazy even for me.)

Nothing symbolizes local culture quite like food. I feel bad bringing this up, I really do. It’s just such a mismatch. Because when folks in Indy really want to live it up in the kitchen, they imitate New Orleans. I’ll quote another Hoosier friend.

I always go up to Indy for a Super Bowl party with some homies and other friends. Often it’s just for the party but sometimes we actually care about the Super Bowl. Like THIS YEAR, for example.

That’s “other team” food now. What to do? We can’t celebrate their cuisine!

Breaded tenderloin, green bean casserole? Nooooo! No Hoosier food!

See? Even in Indiana people can’t get excited about “Hoosier food.”

Not coincidentally, at the top of one persons’ list of best food in Indy is a place called Yats. Hmmm…. wonder what style food they serve there?

In the spirit of full disclosure I must report I just came across an article on this subject that claims “Indianapolis holds its own thanks to a serious understanding of all things pork.” But I’m not having it.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t remind everyone that Indianapolis is the city that changed the Hoosier Dome to the RCA Dome. Yes, I know, this is ancient history because the RCA Dome is no more. But it still says volumes about priorities in Indy. They’d sell their grandmother out for a quick buck. And of course it’s the subject of one of my favorite episodes in the ROX canon, namely ROX #82: The RCA State, which is must viewing before the Super Bowl. Check it out.

So there you have it. I had to stop somewhere and ten seemed like a nice round number. I didn’t even have to bring up the truly egregious events that took place in the wee hours of the morning on March 29, 1984.

Yesterday everyone on campus was wearing black and gold — except for our administrative assistant. A Colts fan from way back, she was defiant in a blue and white dress which she’d been saving for the occasion. She’ll be rooting for the Colts in the Superbowl. But even she was happy the Saints will be there too.

This is the match-up I was hoping to see. Months ago when both the Colts and the Saints were racking up consecutive wins, it occurred to me that it could happen. And since I grew up in Indianapolis and still have friends and family there, I decided I really wanted it to happen, and have fervently wished for it ever since. I only wish I’d been bolder and predicted that it would happen. Then I could brag.

It should be a fun game. Think about it: the Hoosier team with the New Orleans quarterback versus the New Orleans team with the (sorta) Hoosier quarterback. I say “sorta” because Drew Brees went to Purdue, and we all know the Hoosiers are Indiana University. But I guess if we accept Boilermakers in my family I can forgive Drew too.

Diehard Saints fans are blissful at the mere prospect of seeing their team in the big game for the first time in the 43 year history of the franchise. There’s a sense of victory in the air already. No matter what happens in Miami, New Orleans still wins.

People might suspect me of having divided loyalties, but that’s not the case. Sure, I grew up in Indy, but I was never a Colts fan. I’ve only come to appreciate football (insofar as I do) recently. I haven’t followed the Saints long enough or studied the league hard enough to appreciate the Manning dynasty. Although it’s an interesting backstory, I don’t personally care about the fact that Peyton Manning is from New Orleans. I’m for the Saints all the way. They are the only team I’ve ever known.

In fact, it’s kind of amazing to me that I’m actually excited about the Superbowl this year. For most of my life this has been a “dead” day, a time when everyone in the country seems to be preoccupied with a strange event that is absolutely meaningless to me.

Just when I thought the whole sequence of events couldn’t get any stranger, in the midst of unpacking I was summoned via text message to Ashley’s grave where I partook in a bizarre quasi-religious sports ritual.

It was funny but also deadly serious. And it struck me:

It’s not just a game.

Meanwhile, up north, Aunt Karen & Aunt Ron say they will be wearing their “Helga Viking helmets” all weekend, so “beware of the power of the old Norwegians!”

Yes, I’ve got Viking blood in my veins. Yet these Saints have turned me against the old Nordic ways.

Michael and Howie ventured to Kiln, Mississippi, yesterday. On my advice they took some soil from Brett Favre’s boyhood home, mixed it with salt and wrapped in foil. Michael will be taking this little hex package to the Dome tonight for maximum proximity.

It’s not just a game.

They say this is the biggest contest the Saints have ever played in the history of the franchise — which, coincidentally, is the same age as me.

I can find no better words for today than what Ashley wrote three years ago upon getting the biggest damn fleur de lis tattoo you’ve ever seen:

Pride in a city, pride in a team.

Where does the team end and the city begin? These days, who knows.

It’s not just a game.

Who-dat nation is everywhere, thanks to the flood.

Our “leaders” have abandoned us.

People think we’re idiots…but we fight back. Hard.

We know what’s important, and they’re trying to rip it away from us.

But nothing is more important to us than our city, and our team. We will carry it with us always.

I was listening to WWL and WBOK yesterday. These two talk-radio stations could not be more different in so many ways. And yet the theme was the same on both — the Saints as a metaphor for this city. Not a metaphor for what we actually are, but a metaphor for what we could be. A parable, an example, a model. And the message is so simple and basic. If we work together as a team we can succeed. We can achieve excellence. It’s like we’ve been beaten down so hard and for so long that very idea of success seems like a novel concept that can move grown folks to tears of joy.

Unfortunately the follow-up talk pretty much demonstrated that we have a long way to go. I could expand on that but I’m not in the mood.

Some of my neighbors have been bickering, er, I mean debating about Comiskey Park here in Mid-City. The basketball goals that used to be there were taken down when an television production company made plans to rebuild the park for a reality show. That didn’t pan out in the long run, and the park was left in a worse state than ever because of it.

But back to those basketball goals. Some neighbors don’t want them back up, and some do. Both factions have conducted informal polls and claimed results that support their positions. As the rhetoric ratcheted up, the legitimacy of these polls was called into question.

I don’t want to get caught up in the debate though. Rather I wanted to cite how one neighbor, Joseph Brock, has responded. He’s created a Flickr account specifically for this issue. He printed out signs stating the pro-basketball position. Then he went around and used his cameraphone to take pictures of various neighbors holding the signs, and posted those pictures directly to Flickr. Check out the photostream. It’s simple, powerful, effective and cheap.